


Generella

by xysabridde



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Crack, M/M, cracky crack, so much crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xysabridde/pseuds/xysabridde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life on Mars meets Cinderella. Leave your sanity at the door, and remember not to pick it up afterwards. The writer takes no liability for destroyed brain cells or inhaled foodstuffs occurring during this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Generella

  Many moons ago, in the grubby, smelly town of Manchester, there lived a young woman who had just become a wife. She was poorer than poor, and her husband, who had fought and nearly died in a great war, drank all their money away at the local boozer, never bringing food or wages home. But the young woman was pregnant with a child, a little boy, and though she herself desperately desired the child, she did not tell her husband this news until he came home one day to find her with the baby on her lap; this obviously gave him a bit of a turn, so he had to take the baby to ascertain that it was in fact a real child, at which point the little bugger was promptly sick on him, then started wailing very loudly indeed.

 

  “He’ll have to go,” the father said. “Those were my best trousers.”

 

  “He’s my son!” the woman shrieked, at which point the baby stepped up the volume as well, just to match her.

 

  “You’re right,” she said. “I’ve got a headache already.”

 

  They named the baby the first thing they could think of, after the racehorse his father had placed a bet on that afternoon (which, incidentally, came in a very close second and nearly won the father quite a tidy sum). They thought about changing the first letter of his surname to a C, in vengeance for giving them both splitting headaches, but they’d never have been able to offload him if they’d done that, so Eugene Hunt it was.

 

  They took him to his rich relatives’ house, for them to peruse, for they were in need of a servant for the Rich and Ugly Stepsisters, Ray and Chris. Although how Ray and Chris were Eugene’s stepsisters wasn’t actually very clear, because even Mr and Mrs Hunt had higher standards than shagging the Evil Stepmother, Frank Morgan. Neither of the Ugly Stepsisters actually saw the child themselves because they were too busy applying each others’ lippy in the next room, but Frank Morgan quickly took charge of the boy, ordering him to clean the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom and the bathroom to prove his abilities.

 

  “He’s two days old,” his mother said, rather pointedly. Eugene, the broom he’d just been handed clasped in both tiny hands, hiccuped, caught sight of Frank Morgan’s moustache and started to wail.

 

  “Oh, close enough,” Morgan said. “But does he come with silencers?”

 

  And thus Eugene was handed over to his Rich and Ugly Stepsisters, for the amount Stephen would have won on the horse Eugene, had it not stumbled at the third. With his shock of blond hair and bright green eyes, everyone thought he was very cute, until he started shouting the house down; the Ugly Stepsisters, of course, resented him for being so sweet, and by the time Gene (because Eugene really was bloody dorky and not even the Ugly Stepsisters could call him that for much longer) was four years old, he was cleaning their bedrooms and bathrooms and living quarters and kitchens from dawn ‘til dusk, or until he managed a sneaky nap on the sofa in front of _Grandstand_.

 

  One day, when Gene was ten and busily pretending to clean the lounge, Morgan received delivery of a pair of white leather loafers he’d ordered for himself, to dance in at the Palace (where the dress standards were surprisingly high, considering this was the Seventies). Unfortunately, they were too small and clearly too stylish for him; both of the Ugly Stepsisters howled with laughter at the sight of the beautiful loafers paired with Morgan’s ugly silk waistcoat and awful pinstriped trousers, at which point Morgan ripped them off his feet and threw them at Gene.

 

  “Get rid of them!” he screamed, stomping back upstairs, tugging on Ray’s moustache on his way and making him shriek. Gene, watching, smiled a slow, sly smile, picking the loafers up in both hands and retreating to his bedroom to squirrel them away in the hidey hole behind his bed, where he kept his purloined scotch. The trip also enabled him to get away from the Ugly Stepsisters, who often threw make-up at him if they saw he wasn’t cleaning or cooking, and frankly Gene would rather brave the wrath of Phyllis the cook, nicknamed ‘Guide-Dog-Blinder’ for a very good and scary reason, than end up covered in neon pink Chanel and No. 7 lippy.

 

  When Gene was eighteen, Morgan finally found a pair of shoes that actually matched his waistcoat and trousers; there was great rejoicing within the household, and Ray even clipped his moustache for the occasion. Morgan was so happy he announced they would be going to the Palace that very night, for the dance arranged that evening, where King Rathbone would be trying to match-make the handsome, eligible young Prince Sam, known (somewhat) affectionately as His Gladysness throughout the kingdom.

 

  “Make sure you’re immaculate, my darlings,” he gushed to Ray and Chris as they perched on their make-up stools, smoothing their hair and blusher as Gene did his best to mix coal dust into their eyeshadow. “And as for you,” he added, rounding on handsome young Gene, great green eyes framed by long eyelashes staring up at him, “you can come with us if you find something to wear in time, and finish all your chores, cleaning this house from top to bottom. For the King has, rather annoyingly, ordered that every eligible partner in the kingdom attend, and I don’t want to be thrown in the dungeons, I wouldn’t be able to listen to _The Archers_ down there, the signal would be awful.”

 

  “Ponce,” Gene snorted. Morgan picked up his make-up bag, and he disappeared to his bedroom to attempt to mend his clothes, because a man with a face like that putting on make-up was difficult to stomach.

 

  Only, of course, being a servant boy, his clothes were tatty and ripped, barely even presentable to go to sleep in, never mind go to a Palace in. Gene sat down on his bed, staring at the pitiful presentation available to him in a paroxysm of despair, but, he reflected, at least they weren’t flares.

 

  A little knock at the window startled him out of his reverie, and he stared up to find a beautiful fox there, great blue-green eyes fixed on him. The fox was stood outside his room, a smile on its elegant face, long golden-brown fur cascading as it slid the window open and eased in.

 

  “My name is Annie,” the fox said, in a gentle voice. “I’ve come to offer you some assistance.”

 

  “No offence,” Gene said, “but yer a fox. Unless yer plannin’ to skin yerself so I can ‘ave a cloak for the dance, yer not goin’ to be able to ‘elp me an awful lot ‘ere.”

 

  Annie glared at him. “Actually, I brought some clothes I stole from a tailor’s in Manchester.”

 

  “How did you know my size?” Gene asked.

 

  “This is a fairytale, of course I know your size,” Annie said. Gene shrugged, already pulling the clothes on, and _by God_ they were so soft and shaped against his skin, all delicate seams and tastefully-not-floral-patterned shirt and even a medallion with a random but appropriate saint to sparkle at his neck.

 

  “I look… good,” he murmured, surveying himself in the mirror, turning this way and that until he realised he was behaving like Ray and Chris and sat back down on the bed again. Annie grinned.

 

  “Of course you do. We need to ensure you win the ‘eart of His Gladysness, or else the whole kingdom may be doomed.”

 

  “How’s that work, then?”

 

  “Well, it’s either you or me, apparently,” Annie shrugged, “and inter-species does tend to be frowned upon. Besides, he’s more your type than mine. And, between you and me, sometimes ‘e can be a royal pain in the arse, he’s so bloody picky with everything.”

 

  “Oh good,” Gene said gloomily. “Well, fate of the kingdom an’ all that, I can’t be leavin’ it in the ‘ands of His Gladysness to ruin now, can I?” He straightened his spine, stepping forwards, and promptly stepped on a tack left on the floor, which served as a very good reminder that to go to the Palace, he’d need shoes as well.

 

  “Oh yes, the issue of shoes,” Annie sighed. “I did ‘ave a look, but you’ve got such small feet most shoes won’t fit you, an’ it’ll be embarrassin’ for Prince Sam if you turn up with the same Cuban ‘eels as ‘im.”

 

  “You’ve got a point,” Gene wheezed from the bed, nursing his foot. “Maybe I could… I’ve got a pair of white leather loafers Morgan didn’t want because they were too stylish for ‘im, but I’d be able to pull ‘em off, no problems.”

 

  “Is your ego always this big?” Annie sighed, watching as Gene reached round to pull the loafers from his hidey-hole. “And what’s with all the whisky?”

 

  “Dunno. It’s canon.” Gene leaned down and slipped the loafers on, and where they had been too small and stylish for Morgan’s hairy feet, they fitted his perfectly. “These must be as well, because they fit perfectly… ta, Annie!” Annie cast him one last smile, radiant through her whiskers, and vanished out of the window, leaving him standing alone in his tiny bedroom, staring at his handsome reflection in the mirror.

 

  “Watch out, Your Gladysness,” he mumbled, marching to the door and yanking it open, striding out towards the courtyard.

 

  Morgan, Ray and Chris were already out at the front of the house, assembled beside the horse-drawn carriage, Morgan in his horrible waistcoat and trousers and Ray and Chris in pink frilly dresses that made the horses start every time they went near them; Gene slid his sunglasses on to preserve his eyesight from the horrible sight and to make himself look cool, although admittedly, the latter wasn’t quite as successful as the former. Morgan, busily shouting at the drivers and picking Chris up from where he’d tripped over the hem of his dress, didn’t notice Gene was there until he’d almost clambered up into the carriage himself and Ray screamed, “Morgan! Morgan, Gene thinks he’s comin’ to the ball as well! Bastard, get out!”

 

  “Such language from a lady,” Gene snarked, and Ray hit him, just before Morgan wrapped his arm around Gene’s chest and pulled him bodily out of the carriage, back onto the gravel.

 

  “What makes you think you’re coming too?”

 

  “Every eligible partner,” Gene snarled, puffing his chest out as he and Morgan stood eye-to-eye beside the carriage, glaring. “That’s what King Rathbone said, an’ that’s what Prince Sam wants. Not them ugly specimens who look like they’ve been caught in an explosion at a chiffon factory.”

 

  “What’s chiffon?” Chris asked. Ray swerved at the last second from hitting Gene to hitting him.

 

  “I told you,” Morgan growled, “that you would stay here if you hadn’t finished your chores by the time we left. The house is still filthy, the hedge needs cutting, the counters need polishing, the water fountain needs unblocking, and the Santana records still need cleaning-”

 

  “Anything but Santana,” Gene muttered.

 

  “You will not be coming with us! You have disobeyed me and you will not come to the Palace tonight, no matter what number of mysteriously acquired attractive pieces of clothing you may have on you!” Morgan elbowed him out of the way and hauled himself up into the carriage, his horrible shoes flashing in the dim light of the moon. “To the Palace!” he cried, as the chauffeur whipped the horses and they galloped away. Or tried to, but Ray had an unfortunate habit of eating three curries a day, which delayed their departure somewhat.

 

  Gene stormed back inside the house, livid. After all Annie had done for him, after all the years he’d spent in servitude, after the indignity of being named after a bloody racehorse even, he didn’t even get to go to one poncy Palace ball. Now Prince Sam would quite possibly marry Annie, or even one of the Ugly Stepsisters, and he really didn’t want to think about the implications of either.

 

  And then he stopped, because the air was shimmering and blustering in front of him, and unless Ray had done a really bad one, something strange and mysterious was about to happen.

 

  “At least it’ll be better than cleanin’ Santana,” he muttered to himself as the air began to solidify, into the form of a rather ugly man, with a moustache even worse than Morgan’s and Ray’s. The man turned, nose high in the air, and spoke in a high, nasal voice that reminded Gene of someone who had just been kicked in the bollocks.

 

  “I am Litton, your fairy godmother… Jesus bloody Christ, what was in the beer I ‘ad last night?”

 

  “Sure someone didn’t pop some Babycham in? Looks like you’d like it,” Gene supplied, less than helpfully. Litton glared at him from beneath his rakishly-angled tiara.

 

  “I’ve been given the awful task of givin’ you what you desire the most, until twelve on the dot. I’d rather give you a punch in the face, but ‘Ead Office said if I did that I’d be demoted to traffic, so ‘ere you go, you snivellin’ git.” Litton waved his wand, and instantly Gene’s skinny body was engulfed in a camel-hair cloak, a horse-drawn carriage complete with chauffeur by his side. A breeze flapped at the cloak for a split second, and the house was the shiniest it had ever been, including the time it needed industrial cleaning when Ray farted after a dodgy curry.

 

  “There. Enjoy,” Litton said, with a face like a pug chewing on a wasp, and disappeared in a waft of Paco Rabanne.

 

  Gene, wafting it away, hauled himself up into the carriage. “To the Palace, only round the back, so’s the Ugly Stepsisters an’ Morgan don’t spot us.”

 

  “Bet you say that to all the fellas,” the driver winked.

 

  “Don’t give ‘em a choice,” Gene replied. His camel-hair cloak really was spectacular, he was having trouble not stroking it.

 

  And in the blink of an eye he was drawing up outside the Foyer to the Passageway to the Ballroom, stepping out of the carriage surrounded by frocks and suits and goblins and the sound of Santana, but hey, you can’t have it all. He followed the throng of people down towards the Passageway to the Grand Ballroom, head swerving all round looking for His Gladysness, and then he was in the Grand Ballroom itself and it was so thronged with handsome, eligible young men and women that he could barely think.

 

  Meanwhile, Prince Sam, or as everyone knew him, His Gladysness, was not having a good time. King Rathbone was irritating him by pointing out everyone with a nice arse, he’d just spotted two people too ugly for words on the other side of the room- who the bloody hell made dresses that size in pink chiffon?- and to top things off, someone had mislaid his book on blood spatter patterns, which he’d been enjoying hugely. At least he’d been able to slip his police procedural handbook in beneath the table, but King Rathbone snatched at it whenever he tried to read it, insisting he should be keeping his eyes peeled for Mr or Mrs Right. As far as Sam was concerned, Mr or Mrs Right didn’t exist. He had only ever felt for one before, a beautiful girl named Maya, who had broken up with him many moons ago when he had tried to exile her for hiding his Investigative Procedure manual, and even as he had felt for her- and felt her when his dad wasn’t looking- he had felt she was the wrong one for him.

 

  He lifted his head wearily from Chapter Sixteen (Body Language in Interviews), and surveyed the ballroom. Women were twirling, smiling at him demurely, and men were clustered at the scotch tables drinking, or else standing on the ladies’ toes rather than the dancefloor. The ugly chiffon pair were gurning at him, as was their father, whose silk waistcoat made Sam feel positively sick. The moustache wasn’t helping matters either.

 

  And then a hand landed on his arm, and he breathed in the scent of Brut and clean sweat and man, looked down to the sight of a broad-shouldered stranger in a camel-hair cloak, white leather loafers stylish and smooth on his feet, face in shadow and a smile just visible on his face.

 

  “May I ‘ave the honour of a dance, Yer ‘Ighness?”

 

  His rough voice alone was honey to Sam’s ears. Before he knew where he was, he was rising from his chair to whoops and cheers, arms around this hunky stranger, and walking with him to the dance floor, where the band immediately stopped playing the rubbishy fairy-tale tune canon required them to be playing and picked up the beat to _The Jean Genie_.

 

  Instantly the ballroom was transformed, as the stranger moved backwards from Sam and started doing what looked vaguely like the locomotion to the tune, waving his arms in the air, lips heavily pouted. Sam started wiggling his hips from side to side, to a huge grin from beneath the hood of the cloak, and by the time the band launched into the chorus they were in perfect sync, belting the song out together as they swerved and danced and jived to the beat.

 

  His Gladysness was ecstatic. This man could be his one and only, that was clear; canon said so. But if he could only catch a glimpse of the boy’s face, aside from those soft lips and that arrogant grin, a curl of blond hair, a bright green eye…

 

  The great clock struck twelve, but Sam was too wrapped up to hear it.

 

  Gene had truly been having the time of his life, although that wasn’t such a huge achievement as his life to date had been cooking, cleaning and fetching takeaway curry. The music was fantastic, even as he wished for a little Herp Albert, and Prince Sam swinging away in front of him was perfection, down to the cheeky triangular grin and the glimmering medallion the twin of his own. But when he heard the clock striking for the midnight hour, and felt his cloak start to unravel at the seams, he knew he had to run. King Rathbone would never allow Prince Sam to marry a servant boy, he would be exiled from the kingdom at best, at worst executed. Canon be damned for now, his gut instinct was telling him to _bloody run!_

 

  Gene bent his head and bolted across the dancefloor, to the Passageway to the Grand Ballroom, to the Foyer to the Passageway to the Grand Ballroom, and finally to where his carriage had been moments earlier, but even as he grabbed at the shimmer to try to solidify it again, it vanished. Panicking, he turned and took off along the road, running so fast that when one white leather loafer came loose and flew into the undergrowth, he didn’t even notice.

 

  He sprinted all the way home, arriving seconds before Litton, Chris and Ray, all of whom were fuming about Ray and Chris not getting the chance to dance with Prince Sam.

 

  “Was a bloody waste of time,” Ray moaned, tugging his shoes off and wiping ineffectually at his streaky mascara. Chris had been rubbing his the whole dance, and now looked like a slightly clueless panda. “Prince Sam only ‘ad eyes for that bloke in the camel-hair cloak. Didn’t even show ‘is face. Why the bloody ‘ell would ‘e run off like that?”

 

  “Maybe ‘e realised ‘e’d left the gas on,” Chris reasoned. Ray hit him.

 

  “Because ‘e knew ‘e wasn’t good enough for the heir to the throne. That’s the only reason ‘e’d flee like that. Nice cloak, though. Wish I knew where ‘e’d got it from. An’ those loafers! Just like yours, Morgan, although nicer.”

 

  Morgan glared.

 

  At this very moment in time, back in the Foyer to the Passageway to the Grand Ballroom, His Gladysness was inconsolable. Sitting on a bench with his head in his hands, he couldn’t believe his stranger had run off, and left him here bereft with only the last riffs to _The Jean Genie_ echoing in his head to remind him of the man. King Rathbone was ordering the kingdom to be combed for the boy who had stolen his son’s heart and then abandoned him, in two minds as to whether to give the boy his son or execute him instead; Sam, after some Lucozade and a pink wafer, felt a little stronger, and felt able to venture outside into the fresh air to look for any clue as to where his stranger had gone.

 

  One of his police handbooks had told him to search the areas around paths, as these would be prime places for clues to be dropped and possibly hidden in long grass. And had it not been for this advice, gleaned so eagerly from the Investigative Procedure manual Maya had hidden many moons ago, he would never have spotted the stylish white leather loafer nestled in the undergrowth a few yards on, the heel just sticking out from the shrubbery.

 

  “I’ve found it! I’ve found his shoe!” Sam ran towards it, overjoyed, but stopped dead in the middle of the path at the sight of a single speck of blood, as though the stranger’s foot was injured, by some small, sharp object. There was another a little way further on, and another, and another, and Sam lost his breath as he realised that this trail could lead him to his stranger.

 

  “Get a swab of that blood. I want some DNA analysis.” And when he was met with blank looks, and the realisation that DNA hadn’t been discovered yet, he sighed and pointed with a flourish down the path. “Follow the trail of blood, then!”

 

  “Yer a bit ahead of yer time, pal,” one of the soldiers muttered as he went past.

 

  And off they went, marching down the path, Prince Sam following with the white leather loafer clutched in both hands.

 

  Gene was just readying the dinner when another servant came flying into the house. “Light the fire, ready the house, Prince Sam, Prince Sam is coming with King Rathbone! He says we must all line up outside because he is looking for the man he danced with at the Palace Ball, it must have been one of the Ugly Stepsisters!”

 

  “My arse,” Gene growled, getting a very odd look from the servant. Ignoring the look, he ran outside with the rest of the inhabitants of the house, only to stop dead at the sight of His Gladysness flanked by King Rathbone, looking very stern and unforgiving. _Jesus,_ what would King Rathbone do when he realised that his precious son had fallen in love with a servant boy?

 

  And then his eyes flicked down, and he saw the white leather loafer held in Prince Sam’s hand.

 

  “Good people of this house!” King Rathbone boomed. “My son danced with one of you tonight, at the Palace Ball. But he will not recognise this stranger, because they kept their hood up. Which, if you ask me, was a bit suspect really, so I’ll be CRB checking this bloke when we find him.”

 

  Sam held the loafer up miserably, face streaked with tears, making him look absolutely adorable for all his fangirls to coo over. “Whomsoever this loafer belongs to, come forwards. If it fits you, I will marry you, because yer my one an’ only an’ canon proclaims that you are the future of the Kingdom.”

 

  Ray and Chris exchanged glances, running forwards the moment Gene had gathered enough guts to open his mouth. “It was me!” they both yelled, at which point Ray hit Chris round the head and sent him scuttling back to the line-up.

 

  “Give it ‘ere,” Ray ordered, holding his hand out. Reluctantly, a bit disgusted by the lippy smeared all over Ray’s face, Sam handed it over, biting his lip worriedly as Ray wobbled about slotting it onto his foot, only for relief to bloom in his chest at the cry from the nearest soldier of, “This man’s foot is too big! ‘E’s not the man Prince Sam danced with tonight!”

 

  Ray, face like Chanel-smeared thunder, stomped off, hitting Chris again on the way as he ran forwards, snatching the loafer and pushing it onto his own foot.

 

  “This man’s foot is too small!” the soldier shouted. “There’s no way he could dance in those!”

 

  Chris burst into tears and retreated after his Ugly Sister. Morgan, face like thunder, marched forwards.

 

  “Your Highness, I must protest, there must be some mistake-”

 

  “It’s me.” Gene stepped forwards, and Sam looked round at him, and all his breath escaped from him at the sight of this boy dressed in rags, soft mouth and bright green eyes framed by the longest eyelashes, staring down at the loafer in Sam’s hand. Wordlessly, he held it out to him, and Gene walked forwards to take it, ignoring Morgan’s very convincing impression of an erupting volcano beside him as he bent down and slipped it onto his foot.

 

  “It fits!” the soldier screamed. Sam ran forwards and pulled Gene into a hug, breathing in Brut and clean sweat and man, and there was no doubt in his mind at all that this was his stranger, this handsome serving boy, whose one foot was streaked with blood, whose one foot fitted the loafer exactly.

 

  “There must be some mistake!” Morgan screamed, and Sam and Gene broke apart as a murmur of shock rippled through the onlookers. “This boy, Gene Hunt, wasn’t at the Palace Ball! I forbade him to go because the house was dirty.”

 

  “You dared go against my orders?!” King Rathbone screamed. “Soldiers, take this pansy away!”

 

  “Nooo! That’s not how it’s supposed to go!” Morgan shrieked as he was hauled away in handcuffs, towards the waiting police coach. “Where’s the bloody script? Someone fetch me the bleeding script!”

 

  “Let’s see how clean the house is, so we can tell whether the man’s story was true or not,” King Rathbone barked as everyone turned back towards Gene and Sam. But even as he spoke, there was a crackle from the house, and before anyone could so much as look there was a _whoomph_ and the entire house was engulfed in fire, smoke billowing from every window as Ray and Chris shot out of the back door like corks from a champagne bottle, shrieking and running, skirts on fire.

 

  “Oops,” Gene mumbled. Sam gave him a sideways look.

 

  “What?”

 

  “Well, I could never be arsed to take the litter out, see, an’ they never ever lit the fire unless there was someone important comin’… so I sort of got into the ‘abit of shovin’ the litter up the chimney.”

 

  Sam giggled. He’d found his stranger, what was one burned house to him? “Well, in that case, it’d probably be best if you were never given the job of cleanin’ again, wouldn’t it, my Cinder-Gene.”

 

  Gene grinned, grabbed Sam’s lapels, and pulled him closer for a kiss. “Yes, Your Gladysness.”

 

  “You know, I ‘ate being called that,” Sam muttered against Gene’s lips.

 

  “Well, you try being called Generella, an’ see ‘ow you feel then…”


End file.
